


Down in the Depths

by Politzania



Series: Just One of those Things [3]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Flashback, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nudity, PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-26
Updated: 2016-06-26
Packaged: 2018-07-18 06:36:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7303459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Politzania/pseuds/Politzania





	Down in the Depths

The shower foreplay was a pleasant surprise. Tony had been testing some tweaks to the armor (nothing meriting a Mark designation) and was sweaty and a little sore by the time he got back to the penthouse. 

“Getting cleaned up so I’ll be fit for human company,” he called, walking from the landing platform to the master bath. James was stretched out on one of the couches, reading. He gave a lazy wave, obviously deep into whatever story he was working on. Tony had thought he was a bookworm; but James had him beat. Of course, he had almost 7 decades of literary entertainment to catch up on. 

Stark Tower had all the latest technological innovations -- many designed by Tony himself -- and the shower was no exception. Voice controlled temperature and water pressure was a given (thanks, JARVIS) and multiple shower heads were a boon for aching muscles. Tony had just gotten a good lather going when a certain someone murmured in his ear, “Need any help in here, Boss?” 

Tony grabbed a washcloth to clear the soapsuds from his face before opening his eyes. He rarely missed a chance to see James naked; wet and glistening was just icing on the cake. “Oh, all I can get, sunshine,” he replied with a grin. And James was actually helpful, at least to start with, soaping up Tony’s back and giving him a wonderful scalp massage as he washed his hair. 

But then James’ lips were on the back of his neck, and his hands were sliding around Tony’s hips. Tony went to turn to face his lover, his foot skidding slightly on the tile. He caught the spray from a showerhead full in the face and

He couldn’t breathe. 

Which was ridiculous, because he had to breathe. Biological imperative, you know; the whole oxygen/carbon dioxide cycle, alveoli and hemoglobin and the other bits and pieces he couldn’t think of at the moment, doing their job to keep him alive. 

He **had** to breathe. But he couldn’t. 

He couldn’t breathe because he was face down in a tub of cold, dirty water in a cold, dirty cave in some godforsaken mountain stronghold in Afghanistan. 

And he was so fucking tired of it. He’d already told them everything he ever would. They had him working on weapons of mass destruction, and doing their laundry. He was beaten and battered and bowed. What point did another round of waterboarding serve? To prove that he was no longer in control of his destiny? 

Hell, he’d known that since the shit hit the fan and he saw the Stark Industries missile land not five feet from where he cowered behind a rock. Waking up with a hunk of metal in his chest just further drove the point home. If it hadn’t been for Yinsen - someone he could actually talk to, to help him cling to the last shreds of his sanity - he didn’t think he would have survived. Not that he was going to last much longer, because of the whole not-breathing thing.

“Tony.” The voice was oddly familiar. Not Obie, not Rhodey, but familiar nonetheless. 

“Tony,” the voice repeated. “It’s okay. You’re here in the tower. In New York. You’re safe. Noone’s going to hurt you.” He wanted to believe the voice. It was warm, and sincere; concerned, and calm. His hand was placed on someone’s chest. “Inhale nice and slow for me. Now exhale. Follow my lead.” 

And what do you know - he could breathe after all. The air was warm and steamy, not cold and clammy. It smelled of ocean salt and pine instead of body odor and goat curry. He was sitting on polished marble, not rough hewed wood. Which was just as well, since he was bare-assed naked. No, not quite naked; it felt like there was a towel around his shoulders. 

It took a few minutes, but Tony finally opened his eyes as he returned to the here and now. James was kneeling down and looking intently at his face, eyes wide with concern. Tony’s hand was still on his chest, with his own covering it. 

“Guess we’re even now, sweetheart,” Tony tried for a light tone, but the tremor in his voice gave him away. 

“Not the kind of thing I plan on keeping track of,” James replied softly. “Do you want to talk about it?” To his immense surprise, Tony found that he did. The story poured out of him even more easily than the time he’d opened up to Bruce (who had apparently fallen asleep just a few minutes in). He was telling James things that he hadn’t even said to Rhodey, or Pepper. After all, what was three months of captivity and coercion compared to nearly three quarters of a century? 

James listened quietly, the only hint of emotion an occasional clenching of his jaw, or a ripple of plates in his left arm. He held Tony’s hand to start with, but by the end, they were curled up together on the bench in the shower. 

“I should have chosen a more comfortable spot to spill my guts in,” Tony said joints creaking as he slowly stood. He tried not to be envious of James’ unconscious grace when he easily rose to his feet. 

“We seem to have a habit of picking awkward spaces for our breakdowns. At least it’s just the two of us this time around. Need me to carry you to bed, Boss?” 

“Need, no. Want is another thing. Can we get a quick snack, first?” He squawked as James picked him up in an undignified fireman’s carry and headed for the kitchen.


End file.
